The true colour of life is the colour of the body, the colour of the covered red, the implicit and not explicit red of the living heart and the pulses. It is the modest colour of the unpublished blood.

What is known can't jerk us around unwittingly. Before anything can be resolved, the implicit must be made into the explicit.

I try to grasp the colour of my blood and all I feel is life slipping through the colourless veins.

Our fathers valued change for the sake of its results; we value it in the act.

Spirit of place! It is for this we travel, to surprise its subtlety; and where it is a strong and dominant angel, that place, seen once, abides entire in the memory with all its own accidents, its habits, its breath, its name.

Let a man turn to his own childhood -- no further -- if he will renew his sense of remoteness, and of the mystery of change.